And In Italia
by Razorblade91st
Summary: This is a fan-fiction based around my experiences in Victoria 2; this is not a AAR. I hope you enjoy.
1. Prologue

**This is my new fan-fiction based on my events while playing Victoria 2; this is not an AAR (after-action report). It is also based in a slightly alternative history, so if you're thinking, 'That never happened' it might be because it didn't. Anyway, that's all from me for now. Please enjoy the story.**

**Prologue**

The morning mist and smog in London began to settle as the people grew more active in the later morning. The House of Commons was bustling inside, men talked in groups discussing all kinds of issues – from the anti-Catholic laws the government wished to soften, to the role of women – some politicians darted about rallying support from their friends, beginning debates in groups and introducing men that had no wish to meet, and awkwardly smiled with the presentation of none influential figures, such as the Member of Parliament for Dunny-on-the-Wold and the representative for Manningtree.

A loud bell rang out and echoed through the clouded room: men fell silent as they made their way to their seats, preparing their arguments to back their party leaders. They all remained standing as three men entered, merrily chatting to one another. One man turned, and stood behind the speaker's chair. The other two gave each other one last smile before talking their seats facing each other and losing their happy outer look.

The man who stood behind the speaker cleared his throat, "Please be seated". With that the men sat down, with only the guards still remaining. The speaker continued, "Our first issue," the man paused to look at his notes, "Italy. The French have begun a war, alongside Sardinia-Piedmont, to unify Italy under one flag. The Papal States and the Kingdom of Sicily have declared war against Tuscany. Nobody else has, however." The man moved his head down and peered over the top of his glasses, examining the men in front of him. "Who would like to begin?"

A man stood up. He wore a well-designed suit and had his hair combed back. "We can't fight a civil war for Tuscany, and then abandon them five years later to be told what to do by the French."

Another man quickly retorted, "We were stopping the Austrians. It does not matter what happens to them now."

A third man rose, and addressed a passionate line to the assembly of politicians. "We stopped Austria's unification interests. Why should we not stop France? Last time they had any involvement in Italy, it led to Napoleon."

An opposition member stood up, proud in his task, "We have had no problem with France since Waterloo. We cannot risk another war with them now.

To this, many raised to begin their argument, leading to a room full of men shouting their opinions and insulting those who did not share their view. The two who remained seated with the rest of the members of Parliament around them arguing where the two men who had entered so friendlily. One rose. "Enough." The others stopped and sat down, eager to listen. "It would be most un-British to leave behind Tuscany, when we helped them before. Our position with France, however, must remain. We DO NOT declare war against the Republic. We declare war against the aggressors; against the Papal States and Sicily. We cannot stand for this. Britain goes to war."

The silenced remained as the representatives turned their attention to the other man. We rose and took a deep breath; it echoed. He looked around at his audience before settling his attention on his opposition. "Britain goes to war". A fury of cheering and clapping erupted from many of the men: finally the main parties agreed on something. British invention in Italy was inevitable: war had begun.


	2. Chapter 1 - Jones' Rangers

**Chapter 1 – Jones' Rangers**

The forest was alive with activity: birds sang, winds blew, and water poured. The wilds of Scotland were covered in a thick blanket of snow, reaching at least a foot high, and stretching as far as the eye could see through the dense, towering trees. Lines in the snow betrayed the whereabouts of the fifty men dressed in knee-long, rose-red coats with black mirlitons. These British rangers fanned out across the forest in a loose crescent formation, advancing steadily in the deep snow. At their head, a young man dressed in a low officer's uniform: a sergeant, Isaac Jones

Jones' coat cladded him in a thick layer of wool, but the cold still rattled through him. His eyes looked heavy and his mirliton had been strapped down underneath his chin to avoid the wind blowing it off. His face was rough with stubble and his hair flat with the wet. It took on a dark appearance, but underneath the soaked layer lay a thick head of greying hair, despite his young age. At his right side hung a pistol with no decoration. In his hands, the sergeant grasped an Enfield rifled musket with bayonet attached, with a thick leather strap trailing on the snow.

Jones' paused at the flicker of movement many yards ahead, and pushed his rifle to his side, drawing his pistol instead. He placed in front of him, but his cold hand trembled, unsteadying the shot. His eyes looked desperate for it to stop, but it didn't and all he could do was squeeze the trigger and get it over with. With the pull, a loud roar erupted and the forest fell silent for a moment. The flicker of movement turned into a large man with a musket, donning a kilt, staring at the sergeant with his weapon trained at the Red Coat. Unbeknown to him, he had moved into the inaccurate shot from the pistol, knocking him back onto the snow and turning the area red. With that, the other men paused and aimed their rifles, and an explosion of more men against them began the volleys of firing and reloading. Often the men ducked behind a tree to reload, and ran forward before they shot to continue their push.

Jones was able to quick re-holster his pistol and pick up his musket again extraordinarily quickly, and duck behind a tree before his area was pelted with musket shot. With a lull in his action due to the reloading, he ran forward to his first target. To its right, a rather husky-looking man stood with a musket, which the sergeant was quick to rid of. He forced his bayonet past the man's coat and through the skin, sending him against a tree, motionless in terror. Jones turned the other way to see a charging rebel. He dispatched him with an easy shot and scuttled behind cover to reload. But his reload was broken by the appearance of another man, whose bayonet the sergeant just managed to push away with his rifle, before knocking him down with his stock, and finishing him with a jab in his wind pipe.

With his successions in the attack, the others followed and advance far enough to meet Jones at a clearing, in the middle of which stood a middle-aged man with an axe. He screamed at them and the sergeant turned to the other men. "Don't hit his head. We need to prove it's this bastard." A fury of nods showed the agreement of the others, and a deafening volley of musket fire forced the man down in a pile of his blood, every fibre of his being shredded, apart from his face.

A large manor house rose out of the snow-covered landscape, but did not avoid it. Inside, red coated troops clambered around going about tasks as the heavy iron gates swung open for the arriving men. A column of men trudged in, and one turned to a lieutenant overseeing the men. The lieutenant stood firmly in a gentlemanly position, holding firmly onto his sabre hanging on his left. "Sir," he said with a cold-shrivelled voice, "We got 'im." He gestured for a man to bring something over, to which a towering Scot answered and pulled a blood-soaked body over to the conversing lieutenant, dropping it on the fall with power and little respect. The lieutenant put his boot on the body's forehead and kicked away hair, and snarled.

"It's him. Good work lads." He turned to the main building and walked inside without another glance, making the Scot question the other man to issue orders for the body.

Sergeant Jones muttered, "Put it with the rest" before following his superior inside.

Jones stood in front of a wash basin and poured the water over his face to relieve himself of the cold snow, warm ash, and salty sweat. He reached for a towel and dried himself. A powerful knock shook the door and Jones answered. The lieutenant stared at the sergeant. "I'm sure you know Britain has declared war on the Papal States and Two Sicilies." Jones nodded. "Well, the eighty-eighth is joining in. Get your things and prepare your men. We leave tomorrow, Sergeant." Lieutenant Kingsley left as quickly as he had appeared, leaving Sergeant Isaac Jones standing in the door way. He waited for a moment before closing the door, and retreating inside.


	3. Chapter 2 - Hastings' Column

**Chapter 2 – Hastings' Column**

With the order to ship off to Tuscany, the 88th Regiment of Foot began a hard walk through wintery Scotland to Glasgow, where they boarded a transport set for Bristol. The journey took barely a few days for the majority men, but even less for the regiment's colonel, John Rogers who decided he was not one for the large transports but instead boarded a much more luxurious merchant ship set for the same destination. Their arrival was met with little joy; the men found a great dislike of sailing from there, and now realised what a struggle it would be for them to sail for at triple the length of time to Livorno.

Their transport joined several more in Bristol, filled with an array of military equipment and personnel: muskets and cannons to horses and mules, and rangers to cavalry. They began the two week long journey for Italian shores escorted by a couple of Men O' War, at least half a dozen frigates and brigs, and about twice as many schooners.

The waters of near England were rough, but a few days in, the convoy reached the Bay of Biscay, which gave a new meaning to the word. Reaching Portugal's shores and stopping at Gibraltar, the men found that the enclosed sea of the Mediterranean were a lot less violent than their previous week of the voyage.

When they finally reached the port city of Livorno, the 88th Rangers were very much happy to be back on land, and contemplated walking back after the war finished, taking just the short ferry trip from Calais to Dover. They were given little time to rest, and the next morning they set out north with several other regiments, of all varieties, to a fort where Colonel Robert Hastings had his reconnaissance column stationed, quietly waiting for a surprise attack from the Sardinians or French.

They journey took another few days, and the nights involved sleeping the in fields near farm houses, where the commissioned offices would sleep, and the barns, where the cavalry would put their horses. The nights were still warm though, especially compared to the Scottish highlands were Rogers' had insisted on stationing his men for the past few years.

The men's' arrival at the fort was preceded by the arrival of a couple of the colonels, who had 'grown tired of the sleeping conditions, of which they had no need to endure' and which should be reserved for 'cattle and the lowliest of their men'. Among these few was the Colonel Rogers, who held a strong reputation of a drinker and a man with no military knowledge, experience or interest, of which the officers of the Northern Column, including the commander of which, Colonel Robert Hastings, were very much displeased to be 'saddle with the worse of the officers, for but mediocre men'.

The arrival of the men itself called for little celebration: they walked past sturdy steel gates and reinforced wooden doors to meet a clergyman recording their regiment and company numbers. The most interesting of sites in or around the old fort upon arrival for the men, was the brash argument between Hastings and Rogers. The men could not hear any of the words due to a rather loud wind, but could get the impression that Rogers was unhappy of something, and Hastings was firmly standing by it.

A low winter Sun introduced quite well the newly promoted Captain Edward Kingsley, who stood rather proudly at the doorway of the 88th Regiment's sleeping quarters. None of the men made a single remark; they liked Kingsley – he worked hard and looked after them – certainly a lot more than they like Rogers. He walked cheerily and chuckled to himself, his hand firmly gripping a sabre at his side, before announcing some 'important news'. His voice was that of a well-educated merchant's son, who had grown colder in the last few years, during his service in the British Army. "Lads! Listen up, this is something I'm sure you'll all like to know" Men scrambled about their beds and bags and huddled around the man entering his leaving his early thirties. "Colonel Hastings has decided that the best course of action to fully utilise the 88th Regiment is to take command of it himself, relieving Rogers of anything to do with it." The men cheered and Kingsley gestured for them to be quiet. "I'm sure you know that the Colonel was, until recently, entrusted with the management of General Robert-Bassington's regiment, who is in command of British forces in Italy now. The Colonel is now in charge of this column, and ourselves, lacking his own regiment or company to use.

Another cheer erupted and this time the Captain stood and joined in, as the laughing and applauding of men died into the otherwise cool and quiet Tuscan winter night.


End file.
